


The Patience Of A God

by monsterthing



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: FrostIron - Freeform, M/M, POV First Person, loki ranting, not enough sex but oh well, some sort of creepy love or something, steam of consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterthing/pseuds/monsterthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musings of a god, enraptured. A mind of chaos, destruction, and adoration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Patience Of A God

**Author's Note:**

> I am apparently quite incapable of writing long-form things, but I'm greatly enjoying writing snippets and moments. Perhaps, one day, they shall take me somewhere.

Put no words upon it. Do not speak of it. Do not write of it. Tell no one. 

But instead, when we are alone, shove me into the wall and tell me how beautiful I am. Lift those eyes to mine and look at me, dead-on, and tell me that you do not see inside me. For I know what we are, as do you. You have seen me at my lowest; you have seen me sick with desperation and a longing for power. I have seen you burning apart from the inside out. We have watched each other destroy ourselves, and those we loved. 

Shove me into the wall. Hold me there. Press your lips to my throat, and tell me I am awful. Tell me I am horrible. I will destroy you, I will tear you apart, I will rip your skin to shreds and try to fit myself into your bones. 

Whisper, we are one. We will be one. Two children lost in a storm, and you are here, trying to bury your heart in the secret world beneath my ribcage. 

You smell of grease, lover. Hot metal. Iron on your skin, always, and the faint chemical tang that lingers ever after a fight, from your sweat in a dark suit. Sometimes you come to me, pupils blown out, still dismantling the suit, and before you are fully naked your hands have found my wrists and I have found the bedsheets, my face against the cool satin and your hot, musky skin against my own. 

For I am the spoils of war. 

Yours. 

I stand in this glass tower and I watch. I can see you fight, Stark. I can see your little suit flashing about in the sky; your fire glittering against and off the glass and metal of this world you call home. This world I wanted to destroy. 

I still do. 

This world has made you hard. Has turned your eyes dark. When you are on the television, you are fake and charming. And I love you so fiercely for that, for your derision and your ability to be better, always, than everyone else, at all times. For you are better than they. You think it is an act; you tell me, no, no, no. But you do not see what I see. You do not see yourself. 

And I would burn this world down for you, Stark. You have but to ask, and I would come out from this hiding place. This little home we have built, in the quiet, dark recesses of a brightly lit world. Where I am contained, in a cage of my own making. 

Save me, I said; I came to you, begging. Save me from destruction. I will give you anything, I said. 

You took everything. And I said, more. Please. More. 

I would burn it down, if you would never have to use that fake smile again. All those little ants, crawling around the streets, thoughtless for your consideration and kindness. You, yourself, playing the part of the hero, because you are so wholly, innately good. 

And I? I am your perfect fit. For I am innately bad. 

Sometimes, when you are gone, I wish to leave our rooms. I wish to travel through these hallways and labyrinths, and find everyone that does not worship you as they should. I wish to take them, and burn them. To set them out into this cold, shallow world, and let them fight amongst themselves. I wish to wreak havoc, destroy buildings, turn mother against son. 

But you have asked me not to. And you have asked for so little. Please, you said. Stay with me. Let us hide away from the world, for a while. Give it time. 

What is time, to a mortal? 

You do not understand, Stark, the patience of a god. 

Yes. I will wait. I will sit here, and watch you. I will sleep next to you, and with you, and in you. I will cover you in my bruises and my love, your hands fists against the headboard, harsh expulsions of breath and moans and my name, over and over, and isn't it good that you are on the uppermost floor, with all the little ants so far away? For your screams and groans are the payment I seek most, the payment I take for my good behavior. 

For biding my time. 

Yes, I will behave. I will watch you play savior to a world that will forget you. That will forget me. And when you have died your glorious death, perhaps slain in battle or defending your life, I will burn it down. This I swear. 

I will make a pyre of this wretched world, and I will send you out, in flames, in glory, a warrior. And then I will come find you, Stark. When you are in Valhalla, a glorious soul at last, more than you could have ever been in this realm, I will find you. And we shall cause all the chaos you want. All the chaos we could ever dream. An eternity of mischief and mayhem. 

You and I, Stark. 

You and I.


End file.
